


To Feel It In My Bones

by Ewebie



Series: When You Were Young and Less Amazed [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't blame me... y'all wanted this., Jolto, M/M, Touch-Starved, Tumblr Prompt, army John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:56:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5564557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the tumblr post from theanisplanet:</p><p>Can we talk about touch-starved John? Unconsciously leaning into the swift brush of comrade’s clothing as they pass. The over sensitive tingle of his skin to every sensation, may it be rain or wind, or his tears. And one day, someone he feels for dares to touch him softly and lovingly. Making sure not to miss one spot of the sunkissed body, that had started to feel numb from the lack of affection. So that is how James manages to breathe new life into John’s soul again. Just through featherlight caresses.</p><p>
  <i>At first, he told himself it was a slight discomfort with proximity. Sure he’d been in close quarters with his family before, with some of his mates in Uni, the doctors’ res was tiny in any hospital, the odd bed he’d shared with one of his flings. But this was different. This was practically living on top of each other. It was brushing past in small bunks, shoulder nudges, literally bumping into each other in the mess. It must have been the immediacy. That was all.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But it didn’t ease.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Feel It In My Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vanetti (lereya)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lereya/gifts).



> Original post here: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/private/134678834958/tumblr_nyyb8yJLlH1tptkbz

There was something pressing about the relentless heat and sun in the desert. Something caustic and purifying. Something that burned the colorless fog and oppressive damp of London from his soul. Something that left his skin feeling wind chafed, sanded raw, and terrifyingly exposed.

At first, he told himself it was a slight discomfort with proximity. Sure he’d been in close quarters with his family before, with some of his mates in Uni, the doctors’ res was tiny in any hospital, the odd bed he’d shared with one of his flings. But this was different. This was practically living on top of each other. It was brushing past in small bunks, shoulder nudges, literally bumping into each other in the mess. It must have been the immediacy. That was all.

But it didn’t ease.

So he told himself it was just being unaccustomed to touch. Sure he’d spent years training how to use his hands and dexterity for healing, the contact with physical exam, the feel of a surgical field, clinical touch. It was a tool for work. And yes, he’d spent months learning how his adroitness could be applied in a more destructive way. However skilled he was with a sidearm and his finesse for battle, it was still a tool for work. Clinical. But his skin itched under his fatigues, it prickled in the rain, and burned every time someone clapped him on the shoulder… It burned for hours.

It was similar to being younger and scrambling around grasping hands on a rugby pitch only to be groped in celebration. He couldn’t fault anyone for the contact, it was only a natural reaction to surviving contact, for expressing camraderie, for reassurance. But it niggled at him, like a bite on the inside of his cheek that he couldn’t keep from prodding. The itch of a healing wound as tissue pulled itself back together. The crack of chapped lips that bled every time you smiled. John Watson was chafing in his own skin. And he told himself it would go away. Like any reaction, it would weaken over time. He would find equilibrium. And eventually, he wouldn’t even notice.

But it didn’t go away.

If anything, the punishing schedule, the anxiety of constant vigilance, the stress of living on the edge of life and death only made the feeling more acute. And the exhaustion started to wear on him. And he started to worry that someone would notice. And the concern joined the simmering discomfort and wore away at him from the inside out.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! “GODDAMMIT!” John swore and ducked away from the heat and abrading blast of the IED, flinging his corporal ahead of him with as much force as he could muster. “SONUVABITCH!” He dropped to one knee, the ringing in his ears impossible to hear through. And the right side of his face was screaming. It wasn’t the stinging heat he’d grown accustomed to feeling, it was searing and damp and deep.

“Hold still!”

He grit his teeth against the throb of a hand grasping his jaw, the fingers burning their imprint through the dust and grim. Skin on skin. It wouldn’t bruise, but it singed like open flame.

“Keep your eyes closed!”

Cool water was dumped unceremoniously on his face, picking out the spattering of fine lacerations with pinpoints of sharp stabs before dry gauze was held overtop, dulling the pain quickly. But he had no idea how the fingerprints weren’t blistering under the boiling heat of the grip that hadn’t moved from his jaw.

“It’s not in your eyes, Captain.”

Oh God, what would happen if someone touched his eyes? John blinked his eyes open, the sun blindingly bright in the halo around his CO.

Sholto raised a brow as he glared at him. “Go see a medic.”

John tried to steady his breathing, panting as the fingers remained, branding his face with a fierce pressure. “Sir,” he croaked out.

“And for fuck’s sake, stop throwing yourself in front of your men.”

And he was released to see his wounds tended. He treated them himself. They were small – a cluster of lacerations on his cheek and forehead and temple. None of them needed stitches. Just needed a cleaning, some antiseptic, and time. Nothing could treat the burning. It lasted for days.

Four. It was a surprise inspection, but an inspection nonetheless. And one that John was probably supposed to be participating in. But he had better things to do. For example, he currently had his shirt cuffed up to his elbows, his hands carefully encased in sterile gloves, and was closing a rather ugly looking gash on one of the lad’s legs. Eight. Apparently, running blindly around the mechanical bay was a terrible idea. It was down through the fascia and into the muscle, but thankfully, no artery no bone. Stupid kid. Ten.

John heard them milling about, shuffling here and there, making obscene comments about sterility and funding and allocations. But he set his jaw, kept his head down, and continued to count the number of stitches he made. Twelve. Thirteen. Muscle closed. “Still with me?” he asked softly. The lad gave him a pale, loopy, drugged up grin and John smiled back. “Atta boy.” He moved on to the fascia. Once he’d cleaned up the oil, satisfied that there weren’t any metal shards, John had been grateful that the wound was relatively clean and straight. It made his work easier. Approximating the edges of the fascia was simple. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

“What’s this?”

John stiffened, pulling his spine straight, but stopping shy of saluting. He had blood all over his gloves and a needle driver in his hand. It didn’t help that his reflexes were nearly overriding his common sense. “Sir?”

Sholto moved up behind him, gazing at the wound over John’s shoulder. He didn’t touch him, but the heat might have burned the fine hairs off the nape of John’s neck. “How bad?”

John sucked in a sharp breath. “Two weeks?” Without infection. With good healing. If left to rest… which no one did. “Give or take.” The buttons of the front of Sholto’s shirt brushed John’s shoulder blade and he pressed his eyes shut. Pins and needles. Like static electricity shooting out across the line of his shoulders and down his arms. John swallowed back the urge to flinch away.

Sholto hummed. “Don’t stop on my account. How’d it happen?”

He couldn’t move. His fingers were clamped tight around the needle driver and it was all he could do to keep from whimpering as his shirt was charred. “Accident,” he said flatly. Sholto was watching him. Waiting. Burning. “You’re in my light, Sir.”

“Ah, apologies,” Sholto straightened, shifted half a step back. And John could breathe again. The sunburn of contact aching along his back. Seventeen. Eighteen. Sholto didn’t leave.

John threw in an anchoring stitch and started with the skin flaps. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. The heat was spreading and Sholto wasn’t even touching him, tracing up the back of his neck, under his jaw. Twenty-two. “Anything else I can help you with, Sir?” Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

“No. Carry on.”

Head down. Spine on branded by sight alone. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. “Yes, Sir.” Twenty-seven. Why wasn’t he leaving? John felt his face heat. Twenty-eight. Bin the sharps. Dress the wound. Tidy. He stood to dump the used dressings in the sluice and lost his feet over the stool, bumping into his CO. Sholto’s hand shot out, grabbing John’s bicep and steadying him. And John felt his side go up in flames. The fire licked through the palm, through his shirt and ignited his skin. And for whatever reason, instead of pulling away, John leaned into it. Let the flame take what it wanted.

Sholto’s eyes narrowed. “How long have you been on duty?” John blinked up at him. Maybe it was a sign that he was too exhausted to continue, but he couldn’t actually remember. Nor could he come up with a convincing lie. He swayed. The fingers gripping his arm searing through layer upon layer of dermis. “How long since you last slept?” Sholto arched a brow.

“Maybe forty-eight hours?” John croaked, his throat parched.

“Murray!” Sholto snapped over his shoulder.

“Sir?”

“Take over for Watson. He’s off duty.” John frowned. He tried to gather himself to argue. Surely he had to finish with his patients. He had duty. He had… The fingers tightened around his arm and John felt it in his gut.

“Yes, Sir,” Murray slipped into the bay and started tidying what little John had left behind. “Bout time,” he murmured with a smile.

“And you,” Sholto glared. “I don’t want to see you outside of your bunk for the next twelve hours. Clear?”

John nodded. “Y’sir.”

And Sholto released him. Finally, finally released him. And instead of relief, he felt… cold. And Sholto stepped back and crossed his arms and watched, waiting for John to leave. John furrowed his brow, swallowed, and nodded. “Dismissed,” Sholto said softly. And John left. Found his bunk. And collapsed into it. And maybe slept. Though it felt like a banked fire beneath his skin, smoldering and cauterizing at the same time. And he burned for a week.

John Watson felt… off. He hadn’t lost a step. He hadn’t slowed down. He hadn’t faltered in his medical care or his surgical skill or his aim. But he felt like he couldn’t quite catch his breath, like he was running on adrenaline, like he was feverish. Maybe he was coming down with something. He was around sick people all the time; it was possible. But he wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. He was different, changing, the heat and sun and desert galvanizing. Toughening him up. The routine was grounding, not burdensome. And the itching had stopped. Sort of.

It wasn’t gone. Not really. And it wasn’t something he’d learned to ignore. But it was no longer something he associated with discomfort. It was hot, and bothersome, and made him shiver, and left gooseflesh in its wake. But it didn’t hurt so much as ache. So when Murray had clapped him on the shoulder after back-to-back shifts in the CSH, it was a warm tingle of overly-sensitive heat. When Smyth had knocked his elbow in the mess, it didn’t quite feel like he’d submerged his arm in boiling water. Maybe it was an improvement. At muster, though… Muster was an excruciating trial. And John thought he just might know what it felt like being burned at the stake. And Sholto was exacting. The hotter the morning, the stiller the day, the more particular he seemed to be.

John could feel him as he passed by, the air movement. He sucked in a breath as Sholto’s eyes tracked up his spine, singeing across each knuckle of vertebrae. He couldn’t stand any further at attention. And for a moment, John thought he might sigh in relief. Then Sholto split the line, standing directly in front of him. None of his corrections required touch anymore. A glance at John’s left hand, and he’d tighten his fist. The tilt of a head and John’s right elbow drew back further and up higher. But maybe his thumb hadn’t been tucked as neatly against his palm, because Sholto reached out with the tip of an index finger and corrected John’s thumb. And John’s hand went up in flames.

He managed to contain his response to just the smallest inhale. But only just. Until Sholto smoothed the creases from the shoulders of John’s shirt. He ignited. John Watson was a human pyre. Sholto’s eyes narrowed, he nodded, and stepped away. And John stood stoically as he burned.

He might never be cold again.

It was an awareness that overtook him slowly. John had never been terribly introspective. Self-study had rarely left him with a feeling of pride. But he knew himself. And as the proximity to other people became less uncomfortable, only one person still seemed to trigger abject flame. Through fabric, skin on skin, just the exacting gaze and John Watson burned. And it kept happening. More and more frequently. And somehow, he didn’t want it to stop. He didn’t exactly dislike it. And he wasn’t exactly doing everything in his power to avoid it. And that was terrifying.

Then again, he spent his days charging headlong into active firefights. Or mending the consequences of his mates getting the short end of the stick in combat. So all and all, he didn’t really have much time to give to thought. Thinking got people killed. So John Watson did his damnedest not to think. But just to act. That was what he was good at. That was why he was there. And that was how he found himself running straight at machine gun fire to get to one of the sergeants bleeding out in a field.

He was nearly there. Nearly. But he didn’t see the flank. He didn’t see the ambush. And he was about ten seconds from zero cover when the cross fire started. And he was tackled bodily to the dirt. And it was a moment of shock, maybe he was a bit winded from the way he landed, maybe it was the snapping of automatic fire whipping overhead. But the full weight of his CO sprawled overtop of him, pressing down through a near continuous point of contact along his spine, his shoulders, his thighs. And it was too much. Incinerating. Everything was on fire. And John went limp from the sensation of it all.

Sholto scrambled. Easing himself up to flip John onto his back. “Watson? Watson!” And his hands were everywhere at once, searching, checking. “Watson, you dumb sonuvabitch! You aren’t hit!”

John felt the breath punch out of him in a low groan. Nothing hurt. Everything was on fire. Then the palm settled on face, cupped his jaw for a moment. And his eyes shot open with a small gasp.

“Watson!”

“Good.” He swallowed, grabbing at the forearms. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Sholto just stared at him.

“I’m good. Just winded.” He managed to grit out a smile. “Someone just tackled me is all.”

Sholto burst out in a grin and patted John’s face. Twice. Then rolled off onto his back with a huff. “Christ. You’re in trouble when we get back to base.”

“Sir?”

“You scared the ever-loving piss outta me.”

“Sir,” he cleared his throat. John was only just regaining feeling in his fingers and toes. His cheek searing with a palm print. His gut on fire. “Please don’t take up rugby.” Sholto laughed. And John went up like tinder, giggling as he burned to the ground.

It was a long slog back to base. And then there was disarming and debriefing and food and work and sleep and planning. And John had nearly forgotten about Sholto’s threat. But after dinner, he was summoned. And John’s skin started to itch.

Sholto was at his desk when John entered. “Sir, you wanted to see me?”

“Ah. Watson.”

John saluted and stood at attention. It was the respect due a CO, and a particularly good one.

Sholto’s mouth twitched. “At ease.” John dropped into parade rest, and though Sholto might have smirked again, but then he was moving, pushing out of the chair and passing behind John to close the door. And lock it. And when he circled back around, his shoulder just brushed against John’s sleeve. But Sholto perched on the edge of his desk and gave John a long look. “What?”

John swallowed. “I’m sorry, Sir?”

“Do you know how I got to be a Major, Watson?”

John furrowed his brow. “N-no,” he admitted honestly.

“I’m a strategist.” He wrapped his hands around the lip of the desk and crossed his legs at the ankles. “I’m good at predicting what people will do, how they’ll behave, where they’ll go, why… Strategy,” he narrowed his eyes and absolutely raked his gaze over John, from his toes of his boots up to the top of his head. “And you are the first soldier I’ve had that I just cannot get a read on.”

John felt the color creep into his cheeks. He tried to still his expressions.

“You come here as a surgeon, but you’re out in live fire more often than the grunts. You sacrifice your comfort for those of your unit, but you absolutely never demand the same courtesy.” Sholto tilted his head. “You spend your time laying hands on everyone and yet you flinch from casual contact as though you’ve been slapped. Why is that?”

John knew that he was flushed up the back of his neck and out to the tips of his ears.

Sholto pushed off the desk, moving into John’s personal space slowly. “You do know that you do it?”

John nodded stiffly. “I know.”

“Hmm,” Sholto stopped only a hand-span away. “But you don’t know why?”

John wet his lips. “It burns.”

“Does it? Or are you expecting it to?”

John looked up sharply. “What?”

Sholto’s expression was serious, but his words were soft, “Who could possibly leave you without?” His palm settled on John’s shoulder and John held his breath. “Breathe, John.”

His breath hitched, but he did. His arm was heavy, glowing from the inside like a banked fire. Then the palm moved from his shoulder to his neck and he shivered as gooseflesh sprung up in the wake of the lick of fire.

“Tell me to stop,” Sholto said flatly. “Tell me and I will stop.”

“Please don’t stop,” John whispered. And the palm slid up to his cheek and John leaned into the caress.

“This,” Sholto murmured, cupping John’s face between his palms, “Shouldn’t hurt.” Fingers rifled though his hair and the pad of a thumb gingerly traced the line of his lower lip and John shuddered. “You shouldn’t have to avoid this.”

There was no incessant grabbing, no rough handling, no urgency. Nothing John was used to. Just feather light touches, fingers stroking over the crest of his cheek, palms cupping the back of his neck, tracing the dip of his spine. And it burned at him from the inside out. And when lips pressed gently against his, John keened and let the fire consume him.

“There is not an inch of you I would not worship.”


End file.
